


the silence

by fakeplasticlily



Category: Free!
Genre: Confessions, Feelings, M/M, Thinly veiled marriage proposals, Tumblr: makoharufestival, idiots being madly in love and too dumb to know what to do about it, lots of feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-02
Updated: 2014-02-02
Packaged: 2018-01-10 23:08:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1165664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fakeplasticlily/pseuds/fakeplasticlily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s always been calming like this, watching the sunset side by side as they nibble into their watermelon slices. Sometimes, Makoto fills the silence with quiet, inconsequential chatter, but mostly there's just the silence between them, and it's comfortable. But there’s a storm inside of Haru today, and it’s deafening, growing harder and harder to keep down the longer he stays close to Makoto. [Written for the MakoHaru Festival.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	the silence

**Author's Note:**

> this is something i've been meaning to write for a while. haruka POV and awkward confessions are two of my absolute favourite things with this pairing! also sort of inspired by the song The Silence by Bastille, hence the title. if you're curious about the makoto/haruka feelings this song makes me feel, you can check out the rambly mess i wrote about it [here](http://kisumishigino.tumblr.com/post/72215584331/so-theres-this-part-from-the-song-the-silence-by). :)

it is not enough to be dumbstruck;  
(can you fill the silence?)  
you must have the words in that head of yours.  
and oh, oh, can you feel the silence?  
i can't take it anymore  
\-- _the silence_ , bastille.

Past the straw curtains leading in from the balcony, a mild evening breeze flutters into the kitchen. The tinkle of the wind chime it leaves in its wake is so faint it’s almost lost in the wind.

Haruka lays down the knife, and starts to arrange the watermelon slices.

It’s always the same—thin slices arranged in identical mackerel-shaped patterns on two plates. (One blue, one green.) One garnished with mackerel, the other without. The way it’s always been, ever since Haruka was old enough to be allowed to hold a knife. 

The first thing he’d done with it then had been to slice a watermelon, as a green-eyed boy sat across the kitchen table from him one warm summer evening, six years ago. (His first choice had been mackerel, but his grandmother had put her foot down on that. “You need a lot more experience before you’re ready to handle fish!” she’d told him sternly, and Haru knew not to question her when she used that tone. She hadn’t been too keen on the watermelon either, but Haru was too stubborn for her, and she’d relented with a sigh.)

“Are you sure you can do it, Haru-chan?” Makoto had burst out suddenly. “The knife looks really sharp!”

Haru had glanced up then, and green eyes, big and worried, had met his. That wasn’t right—that wasn’t right at all, anything but that sunny smile that belonged on Makoto’s face was wrong, wrong, wrong.

He’d torn his eyes away; he knew only too well how much harder it grew not to give in to Makoto, the longer he stared at his face.

And he really did want to do this. He hadn’t really understood back then why it was so important that he should, why every time he did the tiniest thing for Makoto, he’d find his heart had jumped right into his throat. 

All he knew was that every time he managed to make Makoto’s face light up with a smile, his heart grew so full it could almost burst out of his chest.

Watermelons weren’t chocolate, which didn’t seem significant enough since they had it almost every day anyway, or green curry, which he wouldn’t be allowed to make just yet; but he knew they were Makoto’s favourite fruit. And they were probably at least 90% water, so they were good enough for him, too.

But he’d never been too good with words, so he’d looked down at the watermelon on the table instead.

“Knives are meant to be sharp, idiot,” he’d muttered as he started to slice it.

Six years later, standing in the same kitchen on a summer evening with that same knife in his hand, ready to share watermelon slices on the balcony with that same boy, Haru’s heart sinks.

_Knives are meant to be sharp, idiot._

He isn’t much better with words even now, but at least he knows why he’d been seized with the urge to do these things. Why he’s always been.

Like shifting just that much closer to Makoto so he could cling to him when they slept next to each other as children. Using his phone for the only time in months to call him up during thunderstorms, and stay on the line with him all through so he’d be too distracted to feel frightened. Holding his hand and taking him away, far away, from anything that stole away that smile of his and replaced it with hurt or fear.

… And slicing watermelons for him, and sharing them with him on summer evenings.

He knows now what it’s all for. 

It’s for all the times Makoto has split his ice, and handed him half, and all he’d answered was a noncommittal “Aa.” For all the times he’d been concerned for him, and all he’d replied was “You’re such a busybody, Makoto.” For all the times Makoto had held out a hand to him, and all he’d done was to huff slightly and turn his face to the side as he took it.

For all the times he’d looked around for Makoto, suddenly terrified he’d lost him and he’d been there, every time, and all he could do was to swiftly glance away, hiding the relief that washed over him.

Suddenly, his eyes prickle with an unfamiliar sensation—he realises in a moment that it’s water, as familiar as breathing to him, but he can’t remember the last time his eyes filled with it. He’s only been thinking about Makoto, but that’s all it takes to make him feel this way.

Fists clenched on the table, he lowers his head.

Why is it so hard for him to get the words out, words he so desperately wants to say? The feelings swirl inside of him, formless but ever growing, ever intensifying, rising up till he feels like his chest could burst from it.

He comes to a decision, and straightens up. Making a few final adjustments to the contents of the tray, he picks it up and makes his way towards the balcony.

He kicks the door open with his foot, and steadies the tray in his hands. Makoto is sitting on the mat, to the right side as always, leaving space for Haru on the left, leaning back slightly with his weight on his hands as he looks up at the sky.

The sun is on its way to setting, and it’s dusted Makoto’s hair with a pale orange glow. Would it feel as soft to touch as it looks?

Haru realises he could reach out now, and touch it. There’s nothing stopping him. He could bend down, touch Makoto’s chin, kiss him right now. 

He had never thought he’d want to kiss anyone, but one time he and Makoto had been watching a movie together, and after the couple on screen had kissed he’d happened to glance around at Makoto. His lips looked full and soft, and Haru had wondered how it would feel to press his mouth against them.

What was stopping him?

Makoto turns to him now, face lit up with a smile, and Haru thinks, _oh_.

“Ah, you’re done, Haru.”

What was with the way he kept tacking on his name at the end of every sentence he addressed him? (Like there was no sweeter sound in the world than his name on his lips, Haru’s brain supplies.) Or the way he looks at him, always looks at him, when he thinks Haru isn’t looking. (Like there’s nothing in the world he’d rather look at, Haru’s brain adds.)

Makoto has turned back to the sunset, but Haru hides his flaming face in the sleeve of his shirt anyway.

Maybe the reason it’s so hard is because it’s all just too much. Everything he feels for Makoto, and everything that Makoto feels for him.

He sits down next to Makoto on the floor and hands him his plate.

It’s always been calming like this, watching the sunset side by side as they nibble into their watermelon slices. Sometimes, Makoto fills the silence with quiet inconsequential chatter, but mostly there's just the silence between them, and it's comfortable. But there’s a storm inside of Haru today, and it’s deafening, growing more and more impossible to keep down the longer he stays close to Makoto.

“Is everything okay, Haru?” says Makoto suddenly, brows creased slightly in concern. “You seem a bit… off.”

Haru shakes his head quickly and retreats behind his watermelon slices again.

Why is this so hard? Makoto can read him perfectly when it comes to so many things, but he’s frustratingly oblivious to some of the signs.

 _I want to hold your hand_ , whisper his eyes, that always widen slightly as he sees Makoto holding out his hand to him from the edge of the pool, and reaches out to take it. _Kiss me_ , murmurs the embarrassed tilt of his head to the side every time Makoto looks at him. _Stay with me forever_ , cries the plate of watermelon slices he holds out to him on summer evenings like this.

But there’s a part of him that is thankful for Makoto not being able to read this part of him, because this is something he wants to tell him himself. And show him, too, every day for the rest of his life if he can.

“I like… this,” he blurts out.

“Eh?” Makoto looks confused for a second, then his face melts into a smile. “Watermelons, huh?” he says, still smiling gently, and Haru forgets to look away, his heart in shambles again. “They must be at least 90% percent water,” he chuckles, “But I bet the mackerel makes it even better for you, doesn’t it?”

Haru nods, and takes a nibble of the watermelon. Then he gives himself a shake, and turns to Makoto. “It tastes better when it’s with Makoto, though.”

Makoto’s face goes red at once, and after the second or so it takes Haru to realise what he’d said, his face is red enough to rivals Makoto’s.

“I meant—“ he ploughs on determinedly, “That frozen watermelons—they’re best when Makoto is eating them with me, sitting next to me, watching the sunset from my balcony.”

Makoto’s eyes widen, and his blush only deepens as he splutters, “H-Haru?”

“I want that,” says Haru, and he can’t stop the words rising from his stomach and gushing up to his lips; he couldn’t hold them back even if he tried. “Sunsets and frozen watermelons—with mackerel for me, without for you—with you. Always.”

Makoto is quiet now, not a sound coming from him, so Haru takes the opportunity to keep going. Now that he’s started, he doesn’t think he could go through with this if he stopped once, with every nerve ending in his body with thrumming with the need to keep talking.

“I’d like that,” he says. “All of that. Sitting with you in the balcony of our house where we’ll live. Together. When we’re older. The walls painted blue, and the curtains green. Or the other way around, I don’t really mind. There’ll be two goldfish in a bowl in the hall, and you’ll bring in a new kitten at least once a month.

“I’ll cook, obviously, and you’ll set the table, and the rest of the chores we’ll do together. We’ll have a pool in the garden, and plenty of flowers, and when you don’t feel like swimming you’ll tend to them while I swim. And when it’s late enough you’ll dust yourself off, come up to me and hold out your hand, and I’ll take it.

“I’ll always take your hand, Makoto.”

There’s a ringing silence once he’s finished, chest heaving like he’s just swum twenty laps. Everything he’s just said comes back to him, and he almost can’t believe he said so much. 

“Haru,” Makoto murmurs in a thick voice, one hand covering his face. He lowers it and chuckles softly, his eyes shining. “Did you just propose to me?”

Heat rises in Haru’s cheeks again, but he can’t tear his eyes away from Makoto’s; not now, as embarrassing as it is, when Makoto is looking at him like all the love in the world is written his shiny eyes.

He opens his mouth to speak, but Makoto sets down his plate and turns fully to him. Placing his hand on his cheek, he smiles. As if to say, _that’s okay, you don’t have to answer that right now. Thank you. I love you too._

There’s so much more that Haru wants to say, but the storm inside him has calmed for now. After all, he has the rest of their lives to figure out how to say the rest. 

(Though perhaps even that wouldn’t be enough. No length of time could ever be enough to put into words all the things Makoto makes him feel, for they’d only keep building and building every single day.)

“—But,” Makoto says, scratching his chin thoughtfully, “I do want to go on dates with you first.” He smiles, and his cheeks are still pink. “Proper dates. And kiss you, too, if you’d like.”

“Idiot,” Haru mutters, and it’s a wonder he can even manage that much with the way his heart has suddenly leapt to his throat, racing so fast it’s like he’s just run a mile.

But Makoto doesn’t move at all, probably waiting for Haru to be ready. And as grateful as Haru is for Makoto’s selfless consideration (he’s more flushed than ever, and his fists are clenched as though to hold himself back) he’s coming to realise that there are times he wishes he were selfish instead.

He has the rest of their lives to show Makoto that, though.

For now, he impatiently reaches out to pull Makoto down to press their lips together, and then he can’t think anymore.

They fumble closer, lips sliding awkwardly, and Haru’s pretty sure there’s too much teeth and tongue, and far too sloppy technique even as first kisses go, but Makoto’s lips are softer and sweeter than he could ever have imagined. He never thought he’d find something that could tasted even better than mackerel, but that was before he kissed Makoto. Then Makoto shyly takes Haru’s hands, and entwines their fingers, and it feels like home.

(Makoto has always felt like home to him.)

When they break apart, Haru barely has time to catch his breath when Makoto crushes him in his arms.

“Thank you, Haru,” he whispers, voice breaking. “Thank you.”

Haru wraps his arms around Makoto’s middle, tucks his head under his chin and breathes.

He isn’t sure how long they’ve been like this, wrapped up in each other, when Makoto coughs. “Um so, about the kittens…” He begins hopefully, “Can we maybe loosen it to around… once a week?”

“Once a month,” Haru says at once, voice muffled against Makoto’s chest. “Non-negotiable.”

There’s a long-drawn whine from above his head, and Haru burrows his face deeper into Makoto’s shirt, and smiles.


End file.
